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Aegis Attacks: Introduction
The Wailing Wench Tavern: Tavern Hall The Wailing Wench Tavern stands as one of the largest publican services in the Empire, acting as both a Tavern and Inn for those who wish to partake of that which it offers. A four-level structure if one counts the basement, the Wailing Wench features the main tavern hall on the ground floor, private lodging and rooms on the second floor, an as-yet unconverted loft for storage and the occasional private deal (or proverbial roll in the hay), and the previously mentioned basement, which is sealed via an exceptionally complicated lock that can only be opened by the owner, though very rarely is. The tavern hall itself is a mostly "L" shaped affair, split between the large and equally spacious rectangular tavern itself, and the segregated kitchen area hidden in a room at to the right of the bar. That bar rests at the southern end of the "L", features a rich and polished redwood surface and counter, complete with barstools and an elegant display of hanging mugs and tankards. An uncountable number of bottles rest in wineracks that span the length of the wall behind the bar, while barrels of ale and mead stand off to the sides. Wooden beams the shade of ecru yellow comprise the well-trodden floor, while khaki-shaded granite forms the walls, with the upper halves being paneled in wood that exists as the same colour as the floor. Redwood support beams and highlights finalize the colour scheme, giving the Wailing Wench a very rustic and inviting feel to it. Redwood tables and chairs span the length of the hall, while benches and booths line the walls to provide extra seating to those that want it. A redwood staircase ascends in a "T" shape to the second floor via the eastern wall just next to the bar, while a performance stage ingresses from the middle of the western wall to the left of the main door that rests in the northeast of the "L". Paintings of various busty maidens and wenches on the walls contrast against the real things that serve ale and various other pleasures - some of the flesh - to those that desire them, regardless of gender or class. Cleavage is on tap here as much as the ale, as are periods of high spirits and entertainment, and quieter times of subtle conversation and talespinning. Stained glass windows prevent the troubles of the world from getting into the establishment. ---- Otto Stonefish is kind of staggering, stumbling over to the bar. He's got a couple of wadded up cloths stuffed up his nostrils. He's got a swollen eye to go along with that, and he's also drenched. Until he reaches the bar, he's holding an axe above his head with his hands on the blade. He more or less collapses upon a stool and gasps, "Ale for Ol' Otto for the sands themselves eat 'way his throat, aye..." Mareten fidgets some and directs his eyes to his plate. "Iz much sorries me lady." Is all he can offer lowly as he seems very interested in his potatoes. He and Nayla are at a table near the fire while Thay is near and Otto has just walked in looking for wear. Thayndor Zahir is sitting at a table along one wall, near Nayla and Mareten, with a glass of wine and a bowl of stew in front of him. A black leather cloak hangs next to the fire. Ashen-faced, a middle-aged man stumbles through the doorway to the Tavern. His cloak is in tatters, his boots are worn and fraying, and he is dressed in near rags. The man seems to have been travelling for a considerable distance, his trousers smattered with mud and coloured a dark reddish-black. Wheezing heavily, he takes several steps forward before collapsing on the ground. A low groan escapes his lips, and the attentive eye can see something protruding from his side. There is a white and black mark on his cheek. Following Thayndor's gaze, Nayla catches sight and raises an eyebrow. And then she sees the second battered man enter the tavern and her other brow joins the first. "Why do I keep coming back to Northreach, again?" she wonders aloud, not attempting to approach anyone as she has really no way to help. If she notices Mareten's apology, she make no mention of it. "Because at least here you won't be --" Thayndor begins, with the air of someone making a sly quip, raising his wineglass to his lips. And then, suddenly, it's time for the Lord of Darkwater to put his talk of protecting Freelanders to the test. As the man stumbles in, the Zahir hurriedly puts his wineglass on the table. Rising from his seat with such force that the chair he was sitting in falls over, he rushes towards the wounded newcomer's side. He points to Mareten. "You, smith! Run and fetch a healer. NOW!" It is a tone that does not invite argument. "And call for the town guard!" Over at the bar, Otto lifts his head long enough to look over at the source of the yelling before he concentrates on drowning his sorrows in the ale. Mareten pales and shoots up in his seat at the Noble's orders, nearly knocking over his meal and drink. The young man bobs his head quickly up and down as he scurries to the exit with all the haste his large form can muster. Otto though gets a small scared wave in passing. "Took me little 'uns," gasps the marked Freelander. He lies prostrate on the floor, a sickening and wet rattling sound moving through his lungs. "Cuts they throats, they did." The broken shaft of an arrow, the head buried deep in the man's ribcage, protrudes from his body. His hair is matted by a heavy sweat, and his skin has turned a tallow colour. The hapless fellow does not look likely to last much longer; for the keen eye can spot warm, dried blood soaking his tunic and trousers. "Well, at least he can follow orders," Nayla mutters to herself, rising from her seat more calmly than the men. Her goblet, just over half-filled, is emptied in a well-practiced 'ladylike' gulp and then set back onto the table as the injured man speaks. Her skin, already rather fair, pales to an almost sickly hue, "... Who? Who did this to you, to your..." She seems unable to finish the thought, looking instead to the Count, "Is there any way I can help, Milord?" Thayndor Zahir kneels beside the man, looking over his wounds as he wheezes and gasps. Light fingers skirt the edge of the man's wound, and he looks up at Nayla with a grim expression. "Fetch him a pillow, cousin," the Lord of Darkwater quietly suggests, "so that he may die in comfort." Thayndor swallows and looks down into the Freelander's face again. "Where?" He asks. "Along what road?" Looking over once more, Otto squints his non-swollen eye to get an eye full of what's going on. He's on his feet and limping over, holding his axe casually by the handle with the blade against his leg but not touching the soaked material of his cloak or pants. He crouches down and offers old dying dude some of his ale. Mareten runs out at fast as he can. The big man panting with strain as he rushes out not bothering to look at the man or anyone at that matter really. "Bandits!" the man whimpers, moaning. "On tha Aegis. Cuts they throats. Me wif an' little 'uns... outside Wedgecrest. He coughs heavily, a thick and gargling sound. The Freelander's eyes are wild, looking about searchingly. They rest, terrified, on Thayndor. "Escape No'reach, we did. Ta Est Leg we went." With some effort, he painfully leans forward and greedily guzzles from Otto's ale. The remaining liquid is coloured a thin, milky red. With a nod, the Viscountess hurries up the stairs hastily. She is not gone long at all, returning with not only a pillow, but a blanket as well. Nayla kneels by the injured man's other side, gently tucking the pillow under his head. Her breath seems to be caught in her throat, and she swallows hard in an attempt to remove whatever knot is blocking it. "I..." she starts weakly as her complexion gets a bit whiter, "I'm sorry, I can't... I can't be here..." The blanket is handed off to Thayndor and the noblewoman just gets up and heads for the stairs, looking both ready to cry and ready to be ill. "You were attacked stealing this way from Wedgecrest? What path did you take? The road is wide and flat, with an Imperial watchtower in the middle. You must have been walking some secret trail." The marked Noble looks down into the injured mage's eyes, lifting his head as Nayla inserts the pillow. Her departure goes unnoticed -- instead, he looks to Otto. "Keep these spectators back, Stonefish. Don't crowd the poor man." And to the dying one: "Tell me." Thayndor leans in so that the mage might whisper in his ear. With a bum leg, swollen eye, and some scraps of what is probably his tunic stuffed up his nostrils, the old man with the top knot and cruddy tattoos isn't much to look at. He's got an axe, though, and it's a big affair with a steel head. The fact that he's following the directives of a noble seems to lend him the air of authority he might otherwise be lacking. He starts to shuffle about a circle, clearing space for the guy to die in and what not. Mareten scurries back into the Tavern with whoever he could find with him. "Ayup be a man all dyin! Comes one, he aint looks-see be good." He calls over his shoulder with more than a hint of fear in his voice. "As if mages and guards fleeing the city, gargoyle attacks, and Wildlings were not enough!" barks the gruff voice of a guardsman. He walks inside the Tavern, a hand resting on the pommel of his shortsword. The officer is wearing a House Seamel tabard, and has a subordinate at his flank. There seems to be no sight of a healer at the moment. His eyes widen at the sight of the bloody, dying man and Thayndor kneeling next to him. "What happened here? Who's responsible for this?" asks the soldier in a raised voice. The guard looks threateningly about the room, as if trying to spot the culprit. His subordinate is simply shocked. "Canna go ta Wedgecrest. Not welcome. Me mark," coughs the dying Freelander. "Ambushed on tha Aegis. Betwin Est Leg an' Wedgecrest. I flees ta tha woods. Found me way... Not matter much. See me wif' an' little 'uns soon..." The last words are uttered as a gargle as his eyes nearly bulge out of his head, and he looks about in desperation. The marked man's breathing is becoming eradict, shallow, and forced. "Bandits," Thayndor replies without facing the guards. He places a hand on the dying man's chest, lightly. "Name those who you would have us avenge, Freelander," he commands. "You did not deserve this, just for fleeing in search of a safer place. Name your family and, on my word as a Noble, justice will find those who killed them," the Zahir says. "Name them and then go to them in the afterlife. We still breathing will settle your affairs in the mortal realm." More or less surreptitiously, the axe goes under Otto's increasingly shabby cloak. He takes a sip of his bloody drink, makes a face (a feat considering the current state of his face), and spits the contaminated ale out. He adds a faint nod to reinforce the noble's statement. Like his opinion matters or something. Mareten stands behind the nobles and the officals as he tries to catch a glance at the man. "... Iz does so too." He offers with a small tight frown. "Dis aint goods. Me helps." "Call 'isself tha Rector. Me family... Gaddle an' me boys..." The marked Freelander lets out one final, long gasp and moans, "Light forgive me! Ol' coward tha' I be...." His head slumps to the side, eyes rolling back in his head. The man's fat, swollen tongue sticks out of his mouth as his body lies limp. The breathing stops; he is dead. "Bandits? Where!" demands the Seamel officer. He frowns heavily, grim faced, as the man expires. The other guardsman, by the look of him a fresh-faced rookie, turns toward the door and steps outside. The sound of wretching can be heard. "In the name of the Duke, tell me where are these bandits!" This officer does not seem very impressed. A mixed look of anger and impatience crosses his face. There is a long silence, wherein Thayndor Zahir crouches silently over the dead man with hanging head. The silence is interrupted at long last by the soft rustle of obsidian ringlets as the Zahir rises, bloodied hands held out, and slowly turns to face the guards. Drawing himself up to his full height, Thayndor looks down at the Seamel guardsman with storms in his eyes. "They are beyond your walls, Guardsman. Beyond your territory, even. Somewhere on the border between Mikin and Lomasa lands -- between Wedgecrest and East Leg. But this man has died in your borders. See to it his body is taken to temple and prepared so that his soul may pass to the Light." All of a sudden, a largish man with a funny looking topknot and not so funny looking expression is standing about an arm's length from the Zahir's left flank. The wads that were stuffed in his nose are gone, and the cloak is swept back to reveal the axe blade. Despite the swollen eye and previous limp, he is standing tall. Mareten looks at the dead man and pales even more. "Is because he be marked?" He murmurs softly as he sits down and puts his head in his hands. "Ye Light... Wedgecrest be me Lord Varal's town...." “Poor sot. Should have stayed in Northreach," the officer callously replies, shaking his head. His matter-of-fact tone continues as he adds, "It can't be helped. We have too much trouble up here keeping order. Every day our boys leave their posts. No, it can't be helped. If you say this happened on the Aegis, we leave it for the House Mikin and House Lomasa guards. Or the Imperial Watch." He seems rather confident to stand up to the Lord of Darkwater. The officer's eyes widden as he nearly gasps, "The temple? You must be drunk, Your Lordship. That man's a Shadow-touched. We ought to burn him outside the walls." His nerve seems to rattle, however, as Otto joins the nobleman and reveals his axe. The Seamel guardsman may have second thoughts as he turns toward the still open door and yells, "Wisald! Get in here and help me lug this thing out, eh?" "The smell of blood and the stress of sharing space with the recently deceased must have addled your brain. I will pretend I did not hear you say that." Thayndor Zahir leans forward, looming over the officer, the Mark on his cheek gleaming in the candle-light. "Do you know, guard of Northreach, what this mark on my cheek means? Do you know, guard of Northreach, whom is the Duke you serve? Do you know that he also shares this mark?" Thayndor smiles a cool smile. "He is a child of the Light. That it warred with Shadow within his breast does not change this fact. Bear him to the temple. I will not insult your intelligence by outlining the alternatives. I'm sure you can guess them well enough." The black and brown stumps of Otto's teeth manage to leer as effectively as the rest of him when he puts them on a brief, twisted grin of a display. Mareten just watches the Lord and the guards for a long few moments. The Freelander rocks on his feet and looks at the corpse. "Iz takes him. Alls be under da light no matter whats be touchin dem." The Seamel guard pales, and gulps heavily. He bows at the waist to Thayndor, a fearful and apologetic grimace on his lips. "I - I'm sorry, Your Lordship! Please don't report me to the Duke! I can barely feed my family what with the high prices of food and all. Of course - of course we shall take him to the Temple!" Grabbing hold of the blanketed corpse, and with the assistance of the green-faced Wisald, the officer proceeds to drag the body out of the Tavern. Presumably, they are off to the Shrine of the Light. A dark red blood-stain is left streaked across the floor where the man bled out his last breaths. And so the Northreach guards, and the dead Freelander, are now gone. "Fools," Thayndor hisses under his breath, turning. He nods to Otto. "Well done, Stonefish," he says quietly. Without another word, the Zahir returns to his table, sets upright his chair, and sits. For all the world he now seems intent on finishing his stew. Giving Thayndor a simple nod, Otto limps on over to the bar, hooking his cloak around his axe once more. He's got a swollen eye and his nose is a bit overly inflated as well. His boots squelch wetly, and the rest of him is just as soaked. Mareten stares for a moment more before heading back to his table and his meal. The Freelander shaking still even as he moves away from the dead man. Wordlessly, Thayndor sits eating stew at a table against one wall. There is a blood stain in the center of the tavern, near the door, that a serving girl just now moves to clean. Otto has claimed himself a stool at the bar where he orders up another ale, leaving the slighty rid rimmed tankard he had previously on the bartop. Mareten shakes silently as he starts to shovel potatoes into his waiting muzzle. The youth chews mechanically as he stares off to a blank space across from him. Thayndor Zahir takes a bite of stew, chewing, and angrily slams down his spoon. Leaving it there, he rises violently again, reaches for his cloak at the hearth, pulls it on, and storms outside. Ol' Otto might be more alert than he let's on. He follows the storming noble. Mareten blinks as he looks from the red stain to the two departing men. "Ayup." He murmurs quietly as he hunches his shoulders and tries to be as small as possible. ---- Return to: Season 6 (2007) Category:Logs